


as the sun will rise

by silkskin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Beast!Jon, Beauty!Martin, Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, M/M, Slow Burn, the archive staff as cursed furniture lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21988045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkskin/pseuds/silkskin
Summary: Lost in a storm, Martin’s mother falls into a trap, binding her to a castle and the hideous beast who lives within it. To save her, Martin takes her place.Or: a tale as old as time.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 36
Kudos: 226





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> content warning for body horror and spooky stuff, not as bad as anything in the actual podcast but just in case. (don’t be fooled by the first chapter; this is a romance at heart and follows the beats of the disney movie pretty closely.)
> 
> hope u enjoy! i’ll try to update regularly but i'm notoriously slow at writing so we’ll see lmao. u can find me at my tumblr [@kindlespark](http://kindlespark.tumblr.com) and twitter [@kindlestuck](http://twitter.com/kindlestuck)

They’re lost.

The storm is vicious at night, darkness clinging to Martin and his mother like oil as they push through the branches, trying to ignore the way they tear desperately at his clothes. He’s never seen this part of the forest before, never ventured this far from the path. The ground is strewn with tree roots, thick as columns, battered under the sheets of rain that break on them like brittle glass. He can’t hear anything over the deafening downpour. Everything feels as if it is underwater, cold down to the bone.

Martin steels himself against an ironwood tree, his fingers finding the hardened knots, and traces it with numb fingers until his heartbeat steadies. His mother stumbles, falling onto him heavily, only to jerk away as if she’d touched hot iron. He calls to her and reaches out, but she doesn’t even look at him.

He sighs, letting his head fall back against the rough bark. There’s a brilliant flash of light, and then a deep roaring thunder, and the space between only makes him feel more disoriented, like his senses were fighting each other. The hard wood under his fingers to the fusillade of rain on his skin to the smell of mud rising thick and blighted in his nose. He rubs at his eyes, trying to focus himself on finding a way out.

The lightning strikes again, and this time Martin sees it: a looming outline of pointed spires and dark stone, reflecting the flash like torchlight on a naked blade. A castle. The structure looked awful in the storm, and Martin loathed to approach, but—it was shelter. They couldn’t spend anymore time out here. He tugs at his mother’s arm until she sees it too, and then he starts running, the thought of getting out of the onslaught driving him forward.

The castle doors are large and pitch, with brass door knockers in the shape of an eye. Martin takes them and pounds them against the door, yelling out for help. There’s no response. His mother cowers underneath the overhang of the old courtyard walls, covered in vines that held back crumbling stones like fishnet. Martin holds his satchel closer and moves to knock on the doors again, but this time, they begin to swing slowly open before his hand even touches the wood. He freezes.

His mother doesn’t hesitate, running inside the moment she can, but Martin feels a shiver run up his back that has nothing to do with the cold, and everything to do with the yawning dark doorway in front of him. Compared to the storm, though, he doesn’t really have choice. The lightning illuminates the entrance hall, and even in the darkness Martin could see it was rich in its splendour, a great red carpet adorning the marble floors and a crystal chandelier hanging from the roof far above. As he steps further in, the doors slam shut behind him with an impossible swiftness. He jumps, heart leaping into his throat. The quiet is like a blanket; with the cacophony of the storm suddenly muffled, all he can hear is the dripping of their clothes against the floor.

“Hello?” he calls, tentatively, “I’m sorry to intrude, but we’re seeking shelter from the storm.”

The words echo emptily against the walls.

“Hello? Is anyone home?”

No answer. There’s a prickling starting at the back of his neck, like the feeling of being watched, and the walls seem to loom high and threatening overhead. His mother’s moved further in, her footsteps on the marble echoing like rocks dropped into still water. It makes Martin shiver. As his eyes adjust, he notices a half-open doorway, and the golden amber of a lit fire within.

“Ma,” he calls, gesturing to his mother as he stumbles towards the warmth.

The door swings open easily, and Martin, who was preparing himself to plead for shelter, is surprised to find the room empty—he can’t believe his eyes. There’s a feast laid out in front of him, half-eaten but still bursting with food and delicacies, like the diners had vanished halfway through their evening meal. Roast chicken, bowls of fruits and pastries, cut venison and wine, and the firelight bathing it all in a warmth he could already taste.

His mother gasps, running forward before Martin can stop her. He hesitates—something’s not quite right about all of this, even as his stomach rumbles in protest. They haven’t eaten since leaving the village this morning; the storm catching them barely hours after they’d embarked.

Martin reasons with himself. He doesn’t know where the castle’s residents are, but this much food leftover meant they’d had plenty to serve. He makes an internal promise to thank them once the storm passed and the sun rose. For now, he joins his mother in eating.

It’s just as delicious as it looks. The food was a little cold after sitting for so long, but the fruit was ripe and the meat still tender, and after taking off his cloak, the fire’s warmth made quick work of his wet clothes. And yet still, Martin can’t shake the creeping feeling of being watched. Every time he pauses to listen, really listen beyond the crackling of the fire and his mother’s movements, he swears he can hear whispering, or laughter, like the walls were sharing secrets. It’s not long before the light of the fire too becomes ominous, licking at the stone and reflecting red on his mother’s face.

He runs his fingers along the tablecloth anxiously. It’s a dark red, carefully embroidered with little gold patterns. On closer inspection, he notices that the same engravings are on most of the dark oak furniture too, trimming the edges in lovely curved motifs. There’s a painstaking amount of detail in them; Martin makes out twining roses and vines and circular patterns that remind him of open eyes. Again, with the eyes; he can’t quite seem to make heads or tails of it. The roses, though, were everywhere, set in wreaths and bouquets all along the room, moon-white and pale as bone. Priceless, he knows, even without going up too close. He sighs. Whoever lived here, they were astoundingly wealthy. He’d seen these arrangements at the florist in the rich part of town, and they’d costed more than what Martin earned in a month. And to see them again now, so easily dotting the mantlepiece above the fire and in vases on the table and around the door, is enough to make him uneasy.

His mother bumps the table suddenly, relaxing back as she too finishes her eating. Martin fidgets, looking at her unyielding outline in the chair in front him, the inscrutable expression that he feels shut out by no matter how long he stays by her side. It’s a long time before either of them speaks, but Martin breaks the silence.

“We’ll thank the owners later,” he says, softly.

“We wouldn’t have had to if we hadn’t gotten lost,” she says, blunt and hard, like she’d been polishing the words all day.

“I’m sorry,” Martin apologises with a forced calm, readying himself for another high-strung conversation. “You know the fog gets impenetrable during the evening.”

She shakes her head. “They’re easy to navigate if you know the way.”

“Not this late in the day.”

“Please. If I’d followed my instincts instead of you, we would’ve arrived—”

“It was _you_ who wanted to leave later,” Martin interrupts. He regrets it immediately.

“Enough.” His mother stands up suddenly and turns away from him. There’s a pained silence, and then, “We leave the moment the storm passes, and if we can, we pretend like we were never here. We don’t need the shame of being discovered like this.”

Martin makes an uncomfortable sound in the back of his throat. “We should thank them for the food, and—and ask forgiveness if we have to.”

His mother, as usual, ignores him. Instead, her eyes have fallen onto the vase of roses at the table.

“These are worth a fortune, you know.” Martin doesn’t reply. “We’re going to need money to replace what we’ve lost.”

He frowns. He knows, logically, that whoever lived here would hardly notice a few missing roses, but it still churns his stomach to think about stealing, especially from a home as off-putting as this one.

“We shouldn’t take anything more,” he tries, but his mother’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly at the table cloth. She’s unnaturally transfixed, eyes greedy on the white petals.

Martin shivers. The whispers still haven’t stopped, and the hair on the back of his neck rises. “Don’t, Ma, please. Something’s not right about this place.”

“Martin,” his mother says, cold disappointment in the way she says the syllables of his name, the way she always says it, “Do you know how rare these are? Do you know how much they could get us?”

She’s right, Martin thinks. Flowers are valued in their village, as high in the mountains as they were, especially flowers as rare and beautiful as these. The petals flicker ethereally under the shifting firelight, tinged in gold and so white amongst the rich browns and reds in the room that Martin feels out of place just looking at them. His mother reaches out to them, hand outstretched. It’s like time has frozen in the quiet; not even the noise of the storm raging outside could be heard through the walls. And then he realises—the whispers have stopped. Dread creeps up his spine.

“Ma, stop. Don’t—”

She pulls a rose swiftly from the vase.

The fire snuffs itself out immediately.

He freezes. They’re suddenly enveloped by a darkness so complete and so tight that Martin finds it hard to breathe. The silence rings in his ears, and the prickling feeling of being watched returns in full force, fear striking him so hard he feels like he’s about to throw up.

“Martin—.” he hears his mother say.

Something cold rushes past him, and then she screams, bone-chilling, the sound of it like knives in Martin’s ears. Lightning flashes again, and the scene it illuminates makes him let out a strangled yell, clapping his hands over his mouth; shadows, deep and many-limbed, grabbing at his mother’s body, rending her down and dragging her screeching out of the room.

And then, silence.

The fire starts burning again, just as quickly as it had stopped.

Martin collapses to the ground, shaking. It takes him a minute to stand up again, slow as ice. And then he comes to his senses all at once and dashes out of the room, calling out for her at the top of his lungs, almost wishing the whispering would return to answer him. The castle is as dark and empty as ever.

“Ma!” he shouts, and then, “Please, please give her back!”

The castle doors loom at him temptingly, but—Martin knows he can’t leave the castle without her. There’s a sudden steel in his bones. She’s his _mother_.

Instead, he pushes aside every single instinct screaming at him to get out, and returns to the dining hall, grabbing one of the unlit torches from the walls and lighting it on the fireplace. He has no idea what to do except to look for the shadows, the corridors where the darkness seemed to pool at the edges, where the light from his torch refused to illuminate, and follow. As he runs madly through the castle, the whispers pick up again, and the creeping feeling at the back of his neck grows steadily stronger. Up flights of stares and through empty doorways, fear nipping at his ankles. Sometimes, he’ll turn a corner and swear he sees a figure at the end of it, only for it to vanish within a second. His heart is pumping so hard he feels like it might burst from his chest, but he channels the fear into the running of his feet, echoing like drums.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t know where he is, he just runs and follows the darkness deeper and deeper, because if he stops he thinks he might never move again.

He continues to call for her, and he doesn’t know how many hours he’s run for when he finally comes to a pair of closed doors. It’s made of a dark wood, black as the night outside, with the same engraved eye pattern that he’d seen all through the castle. The whispering here is at its loudest. Darkness pools underneath it, like black light leaking through the cracks. He’s breathing heavily, but he pushes away the exhaustion and tries the door. It doesn’t budge. He hammers at the wood with his fists; he knows his mother’s in there, as surely as he can feel the fear in his bones. It’s deathly quiet but for the murmuring still following him.

“Who’s there?” Martin shouts, wearily, and turns at the dark mocking corridor, “What did you do to her?”

The whispers morph into a laugh so soft Martin doesn’t know if he’s imagined it.

“Please,” he breathes. The laugh fades, and seconds later, something—something _moves_ in the shadows. Martin has to bite his tongue to stop himself from screaming.

The door behind him clicks and swings open. Martin freezes, not wanting to look away from that _thing_ , but when he does he sees a figure lying on the ground in the middle of the room. His heart leaps into his throat. The presence closes in as he runs into the room, shutting the doors with a terrifying bang. Martin falls to his knees at his mother’s unconscious form, gently lifting her head onto his lap and shaking her. She doesn’t wake. The darkness is so heavy he can feel it pushing at his back, and he can barely make out anything in the room around him except for the dirt-strewn wood floor and torn carpet.

“What have you done to her?” Martin says, voice cracking.

And again the thing in the shadows moves, coiling like water, and the torchlight flickers weakly in his hands under the encroaching black. Martin pants, exhausted, knowing he couldn’t fight back against this power, whatever it was, even if he wanted to.

“What do you want from us?” he tries again.

And at that, there’s a shift, and suddenly Martin can hear another set of breathing in his room, sudden and close. Fear seizes at his heart. He clutches his mother’s body closer.

The voice that comes out of the darkness is low and rich, steeped in barely concealed ferocity; a snarl simply pretending to be speech.

“I do not want anything from you.”

It doesn’t make sense, but Martin clenches his jaw at a response, finally. “Who are you?” he asks instead.

Again, the growling words. “I live here.”

“What have you done to her?”

A pause. “Your mother intended to steal from the castle. It would not allow it.”

Martin watches the shadows creep closer to the torchlight. He swallows. “We meant no harm. We were only seeking shelter from the storm, and only ate because we were starving—”

“ _You_ intended no harm. The same cannot be said for her.”

Martin takes a breath. “She doesn’t deserve this. She—We made a mistake.”

A pause, and then, “Even if I wanted to, I could not release her. The castle takes who it will, feeds off what it must. You cannot save her.”

Martin looks down and cradles her mother’s face, fingers tracing her dark skin and cheekbones. “Who are you?” He asks again, softer.

“I already told you. I live here.”

But Martin looks up fiercely, maybe foolishly so, as he wrenches the torch higher. A tiny hope sparks in him when the silhouette draws back.

“You’re afraid of the light,” he says.

There’s a snarl so low that it makes Martin’s heart skip a beat. “Don’t be a fool.”

Martin forces himself not to flinch. “Then show yourself, if you even can.”

The following laugh makes Martin’s stomach drop. “Can you really afford to be more afraid?”

Martin gulps, but continues to look out, unwavering. If he dies here, it won’t be as a coward. Something smooth slips from the edge of the shadows, vast and fluid in its movements, and he tightens his grip on the torch in front of him. The light doesn’t illuminate it so much as the darkness seems to simply, fall away. Martin’s eyes make sense of a hulking, humanoid black mass, huge and yet skeletal thin, all sharp angles and knives as joints. It hunches uncomfortable on crooked legs, with curled claws and short cropped black fur, and from its head antler-like horns twist keen and unsettling like extra limbs.

And then the _eyes_. So many eyes, pockmarking the head like open sores. They open all at once, glowing in the dark, and Martin gasps under the weight of their painful gaze. Pupils burning a fierce red, all except for the two deep brown eyes set in the middle of its face where human eyes would be. It’s these that Martin looks into, and what he sees makes tears spring to his eyes. It looks at him, just _looks_ , and Martin feels unbearably naked under its gaze, skin and flesh being flayed away to lay his secrets bare.

“Please,” he says, suddenly, instinctively, though he does not know what he’s begging for.

“I’ve already told you,” the monster speaks, its red mouth opening to reveal rows upon rows of teeth like seeds in a split-open fruit, “I cannot release her, even if I wanted to. But you are free to go.” It pauses, and then, “She does not deserve your devotion.”

“She’s all I have,” Martin says, numb. The monster doesn’t say anything. Martin tears his gaze away to look at his mother, tucks her dark curls behind her ear. Here, in sleep, her edges have finally softened. He takes a breath. Lets it fill his lungs slowly, curl around his rabbiting heart, before he stands shakily. The beast regards him coolly, all its eyes tracking him in a way that makes Martin feel dirty, wanting to scrub at his skin to cleanse himself of its gaze. Instead, he roots his feet into the ground.

“Take me instead.”

Martin feels a small burst of victory at the way the monster’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Take me in her place.”

There’s a pause. “You would be imprisoned here forever, unable to leave.”

Martin nods, not trusting himself to say anything more.

And then, voice full with a pity he had thought impossible for such a creature, “She would not do the same for you.”

Martin flinches. “You don’t—You don’t know that.”

But he doesn’t need to look into the beast’s unblinking eyes to see the truth of it.

The beast cocks its head when Martin doesn’t falter. “What is your name?”

Martin swallows. Names have power, he knows that. “Martin. Martin Blackwood.”

The creature sighs then, almost sadly, if Martin believed it could feel that way. It leans down, towards his mother, and Martin resists his instincts to leap in front to protect her. The monster moves like liquid, unnaturally graceful, dizzying to watch with its limbs so thin. He sees it touch his mother’s forehead and then close its two brown eyes.

A moment of absolute stillness, and then the beast steps away and his mother groans, eyes fluttering slowly open.

“Martin?”

“Ma!” Martin cries, falling back down to his knees and dropping the torch next to them. “Oh god—you’re okay, you’re alright.”

She lifts herself up onto her forearms, and looks around in fear and confusion. When her eyes alight on the beast, she cowers back against the wall, trembling under Martin’s touch.

“Ma, listen, listen,” he says, stuttering, “you need to go. Get out of here and go home.”

He runs his hands over her shoulders and cups her face, and for the first time in years, she lets him. It’s enough to make tears well in Martin’s eyes.

It takes a minute for the words sink in, and then, “What about you?”

Martin looks away. She furrows her eyebrows.

“Martin, what did you _do_?” she says, desperately.

“I’m staying behind, Ma, but you’re free to go,” he says, quietly. He watches as she struggles to put the pieces together, but when it clicks, it’s not horror that dawns on her face, but a pained relief that chills Martin down to the bone. He feels her chest rise and fall under his hands, steady and hard as always.

“Go home,” he whispers, “The storm has cleared.”

And it had. At some point in the hours of Martin running, he’d stopped hearing the rain. A slight light was even starting to illuminate his surroundings from what Martin realises is the only window in the room. It was morning.

The beast speaks to her for the first time. “Your belongings are where you left them in the hall. Leave now, before I change my mind.”

Martin’s mother nods. She stands shakily, and lets Martin help her, like even she knows this is the last time she’ll see her son. She turns, hugging Martin briefly and planting a cold kiss on his cheek, and then she turns and runs, back down the stairs. From the window, Martin watches her hurry out into the forest far below, staying silent until she vanishes from sight.

She does not look back.

Martin reaches a hand out to the wall to steady himself as the adrenaline leaves him all at once. He can feel the exhaustion come back, and its all he can do not to collapse right then and there. The beast still stands, staring, the creeping morning light barely illuminating the darkness around it. Now that Martin’s done what he needed to, he feels his confidence waver and fear creep back into his chest. He’s just signed his entire life away to save a mother who didn’t love him. He lets out a strangled sob.

“So,” he says harshly, spitting the words out at the monster who stands next to him, “What now? You kill me? Feed on me?”

The monster tilts its head. “I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted nothing from you. It’s the castle that must feed.”

“Stop with the riddles,” Martin snaps. “What happens to me now?”

“Now?” The beast says, with what Martin swears is amusement, “Now, I take you to your room.”

“…What?” Martin says, sure he’d misheard.

“Would you rather sleep in here?”

In the growing morning light, Martin can see the derelict furniture and tattered moth-eaten fabric scattered around the room. “No?”

“Then follow me,” the beast says, turning swiftly and exiting the room. Martin hesitates, before pushing off the wall and grabbing the torch again, almost fully out, and following his jailer out of the room. As Martin leaves, he notices the whispering beginning again, even louder than before. In fact, loud enough that Martin can parse out words from it; phrases like ’someone new’, ‘sacrificed himself’, and even ‘holy hell’, which makes Martin unsure that it’s not just his inner thoughts being warped from exhaustion.

As they pass the entrance hall, Martin wildly thinks about making a run for it to the doors, but even as the thought crosses his mind he dismisses it; his legs feel like they’re about to collapse, and one look at the beast reminds him of how it had moved, slick and effortless, across the castle. Even if half its eyes weren’t already trained on him, he’d be caught before he reached the woods. Martin feels hopelessness claw at his chest.

The beast takes him up a flight of stairs, and then pauses in front of a door.

“Here,” it says, dismissively, opening it. “A guest room. I’ll get my assistants to bring you food later.”

Martin enters, bewildered.  Before he can turn around to question what ‘assistants' meant, the beast slams the door behind him. Martin tries the handle: it’s locked, as expected. He sighs, despair threatening to overcome him. Instead, he studies his surroundings; the 'guest room’ is just as resplendent as the rest of the castle, with elaborate dark furniture and beige curtains draped across the soaring windows. The room could’ve been the size of Martin's entire house. The bed is huge, and at Martin's touch, soft, though coated with a thin layer of dust and dirt as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. The shelves were surprisingly well-furnished, with books and trinkets scattered around, like the last person who lived here had simply left without warning. Or vanished. 

Martin gulps. It’s not reassuring. He’s not convinced that the beast won't simply come in and kill him while he sleeps. He doesn't know why it hasn't already. Instead, he sits on the ground, back against the bedpost to face the door, intending to stay awake; the early morning light already filtering through the window curtains.

But the moment he leans back, he feels exhaustion take him unwillingly into fitful slumber.

He dreams of twisting hallways and a laughing darkness, and above it all, the moon, smiling bright and sinister, its watchful gaze on the castle below.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR *throws jonmartin and daisira at you*

Martin wakes to a quiet muttering. 

He's lying on the hard ground, arm cramping in an uncomfortable position under him, and he—he doesn't know where he is. 

He bolts upright, wincing when he pulls a muscle, and then it all comes back to him: the storm, the castle, his mother screaming and a deal with a beast. Not a dream, then. He sighs and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Martin's still in the room he was in last night, but it's dark now; he'd slept through the entire day. The room feels even bigger in the darkness, the lavish decorations taking on a haunting side. The ever-present eye patterns stare at him hungrily, drinking in his fear and unease.

Also, there’s the muttering.

He backs up against the bed. There's something in the room, he's sure of it.He looks around for something to defend himself with; he'd left his dagger in the dining hall with his satchel. His eyes land on a knife sitting on the bedside table. Disconcerting a place to find one, but lucky.

He reaches towards it, and the muttering stops suddenly as he does. Assured, he picks it up, hands clutching tight on the mahogany handle. It's heavier than he thought it'd be, metal smooth and shining with a strange red tint. 

Then, the voices, even louder, right in front of him.

"Show yourself!" he cries, standing, "I know you're in here."

There’s a pause.

"If you put me down, I might," says a loud drawling voice.

Martin yelps, dropping the knife and scrambling away. There's a sharp hissing sound, like rain hammering on wood, and when the knife lands, a figure materialises in front of it—a woman with short black hair and a quirked smile. Martin lets out another squeak.

"What on earth—“

"Hi," she says, "I'm Melanie."

Martin is speechless. And terribly confused. The woman—ghost? spirit?—that’s appeared in front of him bleeds dark at the edges, the air around her blurring so that her outline was difficult to make out amongst the darkness. The shadows twist round her restlessly, draping themselves across her limbs like a living, writhing shawl.

“How—” Martin begins, before jumping suddenly as the whispering begins again, echoing like laughter. 

The woman turns around, exasperated. “Tim, would you stop with the antics and come out already.”

There’s that harsh hissing sound again, and then a man’s faint outline appears next to the upright mirror at the back of the room, shrugging. The darkness nips fondly at his feet. “Sorry to wake you up,” he says, voice rough, “we don’t sleep.”

“It’d be too early for sleep, anyway,” another voice says, and Martin jerks away from the wall as a woman passes through it, with long curly dark hair and spectacles balanced on her nose. She looks at him curiously. “You look awful.”

Martin isn’t sure he’s not still dreaming, mind trying and failing to make sense of these shades. He cringes back against the bed. “W-what are you? What do you want?”

“I’m Sasha,” the bespectacled woman says, “We live here.”

“If you can really call it ‘living’,” Melanie remarks drily. 

“Wait—are you ghosts?” and then with dawning horror, “Were you killed by the beast?”

The man—Martin guesses is Tim—lets out a short bark of laughter, choked and corrupted in a way that makes his skin crawl. “No, we’re his _assistants_.” 

He says the word ‘assistants’ like it's coated in filth, sibilances falling from his mouth with a malice. Martin is still woefully confused.

“If you haven’t realised it yet,” Melanie says, sensing his predicament, “this castle is cursed.”

Martin frowns. “B-by the beast?”

She scoffs. “No. He’s just at the centre of it all.”

“ You… you  were the whispering and the shadows last night,” Martin realises.

Sasha nods, sheepishly. “Sorry for the scare. We don’t usually have guests.”

“Then—you took my mother,” Martin says, angry.

But Tim shakes his head. “No. That was the castle.” He raises his arm in front of him, watches the shadows leap hungrily across it. “It binds us all here. And now you.”

“What does that even mean?”.

“The further you get away from the castle, the weaker you’ll feel. You won’t be able to survive without it,” Sasha elaborates. “We were all humans like you, once.“

“A-and the beast?” Martin frowns, finding it strange to think of the monster he saw as anything otherwise.

“Him too,” Sasha says. 

“Not that he was any better as one,” Tim says, bitterly.

"You of all people know that's not true," Sasha says wearily, like an old-trodden argument. “You of all people know the curse hit him harder than any of us."

"Sure it did, and the anger and disrespect was just part of it too, was it? The acting like we weren't stuck here right beside him?" Tim snaps. Martin’s eyes widen as the mirror beside him begins to tremble, cracking under an invisible pressure. His form begins to waver, glinting dark as the shadows swarm over him.

“Tim,” Melanie warns. Tim clenches his fists, but doesn’t say anything else. The shadows recede, and a moment later, so does he, dissipating into the air like black fog. The mirror shakes, and then settles.

Martin lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Sorry,” Sasha says, with forced cheer, and then, with all the casualness of someone commenting on the weather, “the castle feeds on our suffering.”

“Is he okay?” Martin asks, surprising himself. A surreal calm has fallen over him, and maybe a hysterical sense of relief. The castle was haunted, maybe, but its inhabitants perhaps weren’t dangerous as he’d first expected. What Martin had thought was menace in the air lent itself easier to weariness.

“He’ll be fine. It’s been a rough few years,” Melanie says, clipped. 

“So—you—the beast really didn’t want anything from me?”

Sasha’s lips quirk up. “No. In fact, we’re under his instructions to serve dinner.” 

“It’d be easier if you dined with him, but…” Melanie sighs, sending Sasha an exasperated look. “I’ll… _try_ and get him.”

“You really don’t have to,” Martin says quickly. But Melanie turns, vanishing into the wall behind her.

Sasha snorts. “It’s fine. It’ll be a miracle if we can get him and Basira out of the study anyway.”

At the mention of potential food, his stomach has begun to rumble. Martin follows her reluctantly to the door. To his surprise, she opens it easily, after waving her hand through the keyhole to unlock it.

Sasha raises her eyebrows at his expression. “We’re not ghosts,” she says, amused. “We can touch things if we wish.”

Martin nods, dazed. He takes a torch from the wall, all of which were now curiously lit, and continues to follow her down the steps. The corridors, while still winding and confusing, seemed less threatening than the night before, though not any less alive. 

“So the feast last night… that was your doing? For the beast?” Martin asks as they walk. His voice echoes dully against the walls.

Sasha makes a noise of affirmation. “Tim, mostly. He was always the best cook.”

“…Thank you,” he says, remembering a promise from last night. “It was delicious.”

Sasha looks at him, surprised. “And for what it’s worth,” Martin continues, “I’m sorry for intruding.” 

“I’m sure you are,” Sasha says, wry. And then, quieter but not ungently, “I’m sorry too.”

* * *

When they reach the dining hall, Melanie is already there, shaking her head angrily to indicate her apparent lack of luck with the beast. Martin lets out an internal sigh of relief. Sasha gestures for him to sit down as she heads into the kitchen. The dining hall is just as ominously inviting as it was the night before, flames licking at the fireplace, and it makes Martin shiver. The white roses though, had vanished, leaving behind empty vases and dull foliage. He spots his satchel, fetching it before he takes a seat at the table, head swimming with new information.

One thing’s clear: he needs to get out of here. Needs to get as much information out of the shades as he can, and then figure out a way to escape whatever curse haunts him. As benevolent as the shades seemed, Martin still doesn’t know how much he can trust them. They feel… corrupted somehow, not quite right. He definitely doesn’t trust the beast.

Tim had returned at one point to help Sasha with the cooking, and they bring out huge plates of quickly-prepared food—soup, eggs, bread—and even that makes Martin feel a little uncomfortable. He’s never had so much food before him until he arrived here, and he feels inadequate and out of place, trying not to seem too greedy when he digs in. 

After a little while, Martin wipes his mouth on his sleeve and dares to ask, “The curse… how did it happen?" 

He can almost feel the temperature drop as the words leave his mouth.

"Elias," Melanie says after a moment, and beyond her quiet voice Martin can see her eyes glint with a hatred as sharp and dangerous as her knife. "He tricked us."

“How?”

“He hired us to work for him in the castle, years ago. Sorting and maintaining the Archives, mostly. But the castle was—wrong. The longer we stayed, the worse it became. 

Sasha continues. “And when we found out what he was _really_ doing, well, that’s when the pretences dropped. He cursed us all and fed us to the castle.”

“Hey, I want it known that I had a bad feeling about the job from the start,” Tim says.

Martin gulps. “ What do you mean ‘really doing’ ?”

The shades look at each other a little uncertainly. “He’s dangerous,” Sasha says, “Evil. And the castle even more so.”

Martin furrows his eyebrows, tucking their noticed hesitation to further scrutinise later. “Because of the beast.”

She sighs. “He’s not—He’s not a bad person.” Melanie scoffs, but Sasha pushes on, “He wasn’t. But in the past few years, he’s been getting worse, getting paranoid—”

“Treating us all like criminals,” Tim interrupts.

Sasha sighs. “You’ll be fine as long as you don’t go down to the Archives. It’s—” 

“Sasha!” Melanie hisses.

“What? What’s wrong with the Archives?” Martin asks.

“It’s where the curse began,” she says, quickly. “Dangerous place.”

Well, they’re definitely hiding something, and not well. Martin pretends to nod agreeably, filing the information away for later. The rest of dinner is a quiet affair; the shades disappear after a while to leave him to his privacy as he eats. It’s just as delicious as the night before.

Martin traces the embroidered eyes on the edge of the tablecloth with his fingers, shuddering when he realises the roses from the night before were missing in the patterns too. The castle was shifting, ever-changing and alive. He feels unbearably small in the face of it, lonely in the midst of all the shadows and obscurity. He almost wishes the shades needed to eat, or god forbid convinced the beast to dine, if only to ward off the emptiness pushing on all sides.

He sighs, standing. He’s not sure what to do with the food he couldn’t finish, and he feels awful leaving any leftovers, so he bundles the bread into a cloth and packs it in his satchel. He moves to the doorway; the shades are nowhere to be seen. Time to do a little exploring, then. Sasha had said the Archives were ‘down’, so Martin grabs his torch and heads straight for the flight of stairs.

Making the descent brings him to another floor of rooms. The first he finds is the cellar, still stocked with a surprising number of kegs, though Martin doesn’t stay to check if they were filled. More storerooms, huge but largely empty, were behind several of the others; his footsteps echo endlessly against their walls. It’s disconcerting, and as he explores, Martin’s overcome by that prickling feeling of being watched again, even as he does his best to make sure he’s not being followed. He’s about to work up the courage to descend the last flight of stairs at the end of the corridor when there’s a loud voice behind him.

“Lost?” Tim says, smirking a little when Martin visibly jumps, heart racing. 

“Oh! Sorry, I was just looking for the bathroom,” Martin says, sheepish, lie falling from his lips easily.

Tim nods, not looking entirely convinced, but not suspicious either. “Right. Well, there definitely won’t be one in the Archives. Follow me.”

Martin does so, trying not to show anything on his face. Those stairs _were_ the Archives, then. He follows Tim, who takes him back up the stairs to retrace the route that Sasha had taken him before dinner. Just before he reaches Martin’s guest room, Tim hangs a left to the next corridor. 

“Here,” Tim says. “There’s a tub in there for you to wash up as well.”

Martin thanks him, and Tim nods, flickering out of sight, his shadows retreating into the dimness of the hallway. Martin lets out a breath. He puts a hand on the bathroom door, waiting a bit until it’s suitably quiet—before he turns right back down the hallway, heading back to the stairs.

* * *

The Archives; Melanie had said that it was where the curse had started. He wasn’t sure if it was a lie or not, but either way, he needs more information, damn the beast. Martin still hasn’t seen him since last night, and the absence makes him emboldened, though a little uneasy. He pauses to take the dagger from his satchel, tucking it under his belt as he walks. 

The stairs going down are shrouded in darkness, but Martin just grits his teeth and starts the descent, convincing himself with visions of freedom, of home and light and a place far far away from the chaos here. The torchlight flickers weakly, illuminating crumbling stone walls that slowly curve right as he continued further and further down. 

Just as he begins to think that the steps would never end, he comes to a set of double doors, heavy, and again engraved with two open eyes, the largest he’s seen yet. He shivers. Staring them down, he grabs at the ringed door handles and pulls.

The door swings open much easier than he’d expected. Inside, laid against the walls, were dark wooden shelves, dozens of them set in rows across the large room. Books and scrolls were stacked up in every single one of them in a sort of cluttered neatness, some dusty, some not, but in a way that felt lived in and well-used. There was a desk at the front of the room, covered with ink bottles and books, an unlit candle sitting to the wayside.

Martin had expected the Archives to be abandoned after the curse, but it seemed like the beast had been in here since. He draws closer to the shelves, peering curiously at the thousands of scrolls, and swears under his breath. He can’t read very well; never had the chance to properly learn in between working and taking care of his mother. But after a quick skim of the rest of the room, it’s apparent that the only thing of value here was the writing.

Martin lets out a sigh, readying himself for a long night ahead. One of these, he reasons, should give him a clue on how to get out of this miserable castle. Something in here must shed a light on the curse. He walks slowly down the shelves, not entirely sure what he’s looking for, painstakingly trying his best to read what seems like gibberish on the scrolls and books. Most of them were indecipherable in their handwriting, or had letters Martin didn’t know. After a while of trying to pronounce frustrating nonsense, he finally realises they’re names, authors, probably. He swears he even recognises a couple, though he hasn’t read any books like these. It were strange; there was an author on every single book or scroll, but no titles to be seen, and no covers either. All of them were blank on the outside, though on quick inspection revealed that they were indeed full of text, hand-written instead of printed.

Martin’s heart stops in his chest. He _does_ know these names. He doubles back, looking closer. Gallagher-Nelson, Gillespie, Grifter. The priest, the florist, the butcher—his neighbours. All organised in what Martin guesses is alphabetical order; neatly stacked files on everyone in town, lining the dozens of shelves. He pulls out the nearest book, flicking it open quickly, eyes trying to make sense of the writing in front of him. He catches a couple words, “ashamed,” “afraid”, “fear”.

His breathing coming quickly and horror filling his lungs, Martin runs back towards the front of the room, eyes scanning the shelves until he finds the name he’s looking for. Barker, Bilham—

Blackwood. 

His eyes weren’t deceiving him; he knows his own name, at least. Something that’s not quite relief floods him when he finds his scroll missing, a gap where it’s meant to be. His mother’s, though, is here. He draws it out, hands trembling, fingers pulling at the parchment until the handwritten cursive reveals itself, looping into the letters forming her name.

He’s about to start reading when he thinks again about his missing scroll. The gap. The obvious answer reveals itself, and he turns his eyes to the desk at the front of the room. Nausea grips him. There’s an open scroll sitting on it, and as Martin approaches, he notices it’s half-full with writing. His name is written in broad neat strokes at the top of it: Martin Blackwood. 

The ink is still wet.

“What are you doing here.” 

Martin gasps, flinching back, torch slipping from his hands. Already weak, it flickers out almost instantly as it falls, dousing him in pitch-black. 

The beast is at the doorway, eyes blown wide in anger, screaming red pupils the only thing left illuminating the room.

“You—How much did you _see_?” The beast snarls with a fury that makes Martin’s knees weak. He rushes to apologise, but then the beast is in front of him, lightning-quick, eyes looking and _looking_. The glare hits him keen as a knife, with such a force that Martin lets out a cry. 

Martin wasn’t planning to reply, but the words come from him suddenly, like they were always there, waiting on his tongue. “Writing—names. My name.”

The beast is panting, pupils flicking back at forth in panic. “Get out.” 

“I was just—”

“Get. Out.”

The beast looms over him, claws sharp and teeth bared, dozens of eyes reading him like an open book. Martin feels it like a physical presence, burning tar and cutting needles against his skin. Suddenly, he knows; understands clearly what all the scrolls were of, what they were documenting from the lives of every single person in his village. 

Martin doesn’t hesitate again. He runs, straight out the doorway and up the stairs, fleeing through the halls. He hears Tim call out to him as he runs, but he ignores him, terror thrumming under his skin. He doesn’t even realise he’s about to run out the castle doors until his hands are pressed against their grain. He needs to get out—away from the ever-watching eyes and shadows and fear and _secrets_ clawing at his neck, if only for a little while. He pulls at the handles.

“Stop!” It’s Sasha this time, calling from the shadows behind him. “Martin, don’t—the curse isn’t the only thing in the forest—it’s too dangerous!”

“I’d risk it over staying here,” he cries back, and then the door’s open, and he’s running through the castle courtyard towards the woods, wind whipping at his clothes.

* * *

The woods are dark, air still humid from the storm the previous night, and eerily quiet. Pure adrenaline and terror drives Martin forward, nothing but the thudding of his feet on the ground and the echoes of the beast’s words in his mind. The wind gusts heavily against him. He doesn’t know where he’s planning to go, or what direction he’s headed, only that he wants _away_.

Martin runs until exhaustion makes him feel like he’s breathing cotton, until he has to slow down, leaning on the trees next to him. Sweat trickles down his neck, and he wipes it away with trembling fingers.

What now? He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know how far and how long the curse will cling to him, doesn’t even know if this exhaustion was a symptom or just his own weakness. The trees rustle mockingly above him.

A loud crack breaks the silence, like glass shattering, and Martin whips his head up. He can’t see anything but darkness. He remembers Sasha’s warning, suddenly. Martin finds the dagger at his waist, forgotten in his confrontation with the beast, and draws it slowly from its sheath, finding a small comfort in its weight in his hands.

And then Martin hears it. A deep guttural sound, the kind of roar that he feels low in his chest before he can hear it, like the sound alone was enough to wrench his feet from the ground. Terror rises in him; he looks frantically around for the sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

The wind blows harder, and as the canopy above him parts Martin finally sees a silhouette, shifting under the blanket of shadows, just barely illuminated by the moon above. Cold horror grips at Martin’s limbs. It’s shaped like a wolf but _not_ , shaped like a dog but _wrong:_ too many limbs, too many eyes, too many teeth. And it’s moving towards him, edging closer and growling that deep rumble.

Martin makes a choice. His knife doesn’t stand a chance; he runs, fleeing further into the woods.

It’s a mistake.

The growl gets louder, if possible, and it breaks after him with a roar and the thumping of too many legs. He swears he can feel its breath, rotten and acrid on his neck as he runs. Fear squeezes his already exhausted lungs even harder. Twisting, he leaps to the side just before the wolf-thing pounces, choking back a cry as its razor-sharp claws rend the ground apart where he was just standing. It stumbles, driven forward by its own momentum and giving Martin a few precious seconds to pick up speed again.

The thing is fast, much faster than Martin, and he knows it. He tries again to dodge to the side before it attacks, but this time its claws catch at his cloak, choking him. Martin jerks backwards, hands fumbling at the clasp to release it before its teeth catch him. He rolls, hefting his knife and digging it heavily into the coarse fur. The wolf howls, bucking away, but it doesn’t flee, doesn’t stop its approach.

Martin scrambles back. It’s too close. He can’t run. Can’t reason with it; it’s far more animalistic than the beast. He’s going to die out here.

The wolf bares its teeth and pounces. Martin closes his eyes.

Nothing lands.

There’s an ear-splitting growl, new, and Martin snaps his eyes open to see a black crawling mass of limbs and blade-joints tackling the wolf. He stares in horror as it fights, driving the wolf back, snarling in pain and anger as teeth and claws find their marks.

The Beast.

“Daisy!” it roars, wretched and harsh, “Stop! It’s not Elias—he’s not what you’re hunting!”

Martin’s eyes can barely keep track of the fight, unable to comprehend the shifting forms that move and strike like vipers in the darkness. It’s like watching black flames, whipping waters, and Martin feels dizzy with the brutality.

The beast lets out a roar as the wolf’s claws rake across its arm, backing up until it stands in front of Martin, between prey and the hunter.

“Get back!” it says, turning to face Martin, “I don’t know how much of me she can understand.” The beast’s eyes flicker madly as it tracks the wolf’s movements.

It’s losing, Martin realises, as he eyes the thick dripping blood on the beast’s fur and cloak, the way it limps.

“What do we do?” Martin whispers.

“This.” And then the beast pulls a book from its cloak, throwing it to the ground in front of them. The wolf doesn’t even look at it. Martin shakes his head, about to start running again before there’s a familiar sound, and suddenly a figure’s standing in front of them, dark-skinned with a headscarf covering her hair.

The wolf stops in its tracks.

Martin watches apprehensively as the woman turns and steps forward. The wolf is still growling, hackles raised, but its focus has shifted onto the woman in front of them, hesitation in its aura.

“Daisy,” the woman speaks. “It’s me. It’s Basira.”

There’s a high-pitched keening sound, like knives being sharpened, and it takes Martin a while to realise it’s coming from the wolf. It trembles, seemingly fighting itself. Martin holds a breath as Basira steps forward again, reaching her hand out as if to touch it.

“Daisy,” she says, soft and gentle as water running downstream.

The wolf huffs, but then Basira makes contact with her fur. Daisy stops growling. Basira reaches her arms around Daisy’s neck; Martin watches as she slowly relaxes, muscles loosening and settling back down, leaning into Basira’s touch. Relief trickles slowly over him like dripping wax, and then he turns to the beast, still poised in front of him, arms held up protectively.

“You saved my life,” Martin whispers.

The beast draws the edges of his lips back in what Martin thinks is an approximation of a smile, and then he collapses into the ground, legs no longer able to support his weight.

Martin kneels down, distraught. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, even as his hands dig through fur to try to stem the bleeding. He should be running. He should be getting as far away from here as possible.

Instead, Martin shifts the beast into a more comfortable position on the ground. He’s still breathing.

“You’re still here.” Basira turns after a while, curiously echoing his own thoughts.

“He’s hurt,” Martin says.

Basira looks at Martin appraisingly, eyes shrewd. Then she walks over and joins him to lean over the beast, hands hesitant on the wounds. “We can’t be this far out from the castle. He’s been weakened. Help me lift him onto Daisy; we can bring him back.”

At Martin’s hesitation, Basira continues, “She listens to me.”

“Who is she?” Martin asks, softly.

“My… my partner. She came after the rest of us were cursed, looking for me. She hunted Elias down but—it didn’t end well.” Martin can hear the barely concealed guilt in her words, the agony and longing there. He looks at the way Daisy follows her, head bowed protectively at Basira’s back. The way Basira still strokes Daisy’s fur, hand tangling in the strands, barely even noticing the blood.

“She’s not all there. Nothing much can get through to her anymore,” Basira continues, words clipped and carefully controlled. “Except, well, me.”

Except love, Martin thinks, but doesn’t say.

He reaches down, helping Basira lift the beast onto Daisy’s back as she kneels, trying to avoid the claws. Daisy sniffs at him, but her focus remains on Basira, still slowly stroking her fur.

“Let’s go,” Basira says, softly, before guiding Daisy back to the silhouette of the castle in the distance. Martin follows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jon wakes, there’s someone unfamiliar sitting next to him. He’s in a chair in the living room, lit warmly by the fireplace, and Martin is sitting beside him, running a cloth over his wounds and doing his best not to cower under Jon’s multi-eyed gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for some perspective from jon’s side! alternate chapter title: the inherent homoeroticism of patching up someone’s wounds
> 
> also, as anime villain as i write elias bouchard, please know that the podcast did it first 

When Jon wakes, there’s someone unfamiliar sitting next to him. He flinches, and then lets out a growl as his whole right side bursts into pain, sharp and paralysing. His eyes take a moment to focus, half of them pinched close in a way that almost sends him into a panic before he finally makes sense of his surroundings. He’s in a chair in the living room, lit warmly by the fireplace, and Martin is sitting beside him, running a cloth over his wounds and doing his best not to cower under Jon’s multi-eyed gaze. Jon takes him in, bewildered, and then winces as his injuries flare up again. 

“Sorry,” Martin says gently, far too gently, “it’ll sting. You got hurt pretty badly out there; Daisy and Basira brought you back.” 

Jon remembers. His cloak is lying on the ground beside him, caked in mud, but Basira and Daisy are nowhere to be seen. In fact, he really doesn’t know why Martin’s still here. 

He gestures silently to the blood on Martin’s shirt. 

Martin shakes his head. “Not mine. Yours and Daisy’s.” 

Another jolt of pain as Martin moves the cloth; Jon tries not to let out a grumble, if only not to frighten Martin. Half his eyes are swollen shut because of his injuries, he realises; he must have a dozen black eyes. His back is raked with claw marks, and there are bruises he can feel burning all over. Martin’s at Jon’s arm, cleaning around where Daisy had bitten through his flesh. Jon breathes slowly, trying to relax his claws from their iron grip on the armrests. He hates being this vulnerable.

“That was stupid of you, running into the forest at night,” Jon says, suddenly. 

Martin visibly bristles, but not in fear as Jon was expecting. “Excuse me?” 

“Running into the woods at night. It was dangerous and foolish.” 

“ _Dangerous_?” Martin says, working his jaw, “This whole castle is dangerous.” 

“And you’re bound to it,” Jon scoffs. “Did you think you could escape it that easily?” 

Martin lets out a frustrated noise. “Maybe I was too caught up with the ferocious beast that had scared me half out of my wits and yelled at me to get out!” 

“I obviously meant out of the room!” Jon says, wincing. 

Martin stares, lifting his hands off the towel. “Fine. Feel free to deal with your wounds yourself.” 

Jon opens his mouth instinctively to retort, only to snap it shut as he feels an unwitting panic rising in his chest. Martin’s standing up to leave, turning away from him with fists clenched. Jon wants to think ‘good riddance’, but instead he’s only overcome by frustration. He’s already driven away the one person trying to help him. 

He sighs. “Wait.”

Martin stops at the doorway. He doesn’t turn.

“Please stay,” Jon says, so quietly he doesn’t know if Martin can hear him. 

But he pivots then, meeting Jon’s eyes steadily. “Why should I?”

Jon doesn’t have a reason for him; they both know that. He deflates, eyes looking away sourly to watch the fireplace’s flames, waiting for the door to click shut behind him. 

It doesn’t. There’s a long pause, and then the pressure at his side returns. Jon looks back, surprised. Martin doesn’t say anything, pointedly not looking at him, instead focussing very intently on rinsing the blood-soaked cloth in the bucket of water beside him. The firelight rings his round figure with a warm glow. Jon isn’t blind—in fact the very opposite. He knows Martin is pretty, knows it from the star-scattered freckles on his dark skin, the way the black curls of his hair frame his face. And apparently Martin’s as idiotic as he is beautiful, trading his life away and then willingly coming back like this, for people who didn’t deserve it. Jon feels a familiar helplessness rise in him as he thinks about yet another life being roped into the mess of this castle. 

“I’m… sorry,” Jon starts, words feeling foreign on his tongue, “for snapping at you. Here and in the Archives earlier. I—I panicked.” 

It’s stilted, and the most sloppy apology Jon’s ever made, but he sees Martin soften slightly beside him. He doesn’t look up, but the cloth continues to move over Jon’s wounds, left to right, slowly and repeatedly, the fibres catching in his fur. 

“What… what was all that? In the Archives?” Martin asks after a moment, a touch hesitant perhaps in preparation for the answer. 

“It’s better if you don’t know.” 

“Sure,” Martin scoffs. “I’m still asking, though.” 

“You don’t need to know.” Jon lets out a growl, expecting Martin to flinch away, but the man just doubles down. 

“Look, the least you can do is give me answers,” he says, stubbornly. “That was _my_ name on that scroll.”

Jon glares with all his eyes. Martin doesn’t budge. Jon sighs.

“As if you don’t already know,” he says, voice quiet and ashamed. 

Martin frowns. “I can’t—I mean, I didn’t get time to, well, read them,” he says, “but I suspect.” 

“Well?” Jon pushes. Maybe to avoid having to admit it himself. 

Martin sighs, taking his hands off the cloth and putting them in his lap as he fidgets. “Secrets, right? Blackmail. On everyone in town?” His voice cracks almost imperceptibly. “You can See them.” 

The guilt of it makes Jon want to hunch his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Is it… Is it part of the curse?”

Jon raises his eyebrows. “I see my assistants filled you in. Or you’re exceedingly optimistic about me.”

“Can’t it be both?” Martin says, and Jon can see the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. It stills him, that small detail, and Jon finds himself involuntarily drawn to it, wanting to hear more of that lilt in Martin’s voice, the amusement dancing on his tongue. He hasn’t heard that in a long time, and certainly not directed at him. He exhales, bringing his attention back to the topic at hand; Martin’s still looking at him expectantly.

“…Yes. You’re right. It’s part of the curse: I have to give Elias information on the people in the village,” Jon says. He shudders. “The scrolls… they’re not just blackmail. When Elias owns them, he owns the people within them too. They become tied to him, under his control, and he lives off that knowledge and suffering.

“Behind all the theatrics of the curse, what really matters is that he has our scrolls hidden somewhere outside of the castle.” Jon sighs. “He’s got us all like puppets on string. We can’t raise a hand against him.”

Martin looks taken aback, and then his expression slowly changes into one of pity. Jon worries at the fabric of his chair; he was expecting disgust, or fear, anger even, and the lack of either eats at him. He’s not used to it, and it makes him unusually skittish under the attention. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says. 

Jon looks up in surprise. “What for?” 

He shrugs. “All of it.” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

“Yes,” Martin says, huffing a little, “but I’m still sorry.” 

Jon nods. It’s quiet as Martin continues cleaning his wounds, and for a while, there’s only the crackle of the fire and the sting of the water on his arm. But Jon’s thoughts catch up with him soon enough, darting back and forth in his mind like the flames in the fireplace.

Unable to keep the question in any longer, he blurts, “Why did you stay?”

Martin starts, hand stilling on the cloth. “Like you said,” he says, “I’m stuck here in this curse too, aren’t I?” 

“No, I mean, why are you—” he gestures to Martin sitting in front of him, the cloth he’s still holding with painstaking care around Jon’s arm, “why are you here?” 

“You… you saved my life,” Martin says, softly. “I suppose I’m saying thank you.” 

“Oh,” Jon breathes. 

After that, the quiet is nice, and surprisingly unstrained. Jon does his best to relax. The vulnerability is still embarrassing, but he fights the urge to fidget and lets the warmth of the fireplace settle into his chest instead, lets the repetitive movements of Martin’s cloth and the coolness of the water against his wounds steady him.

Martin lifts his shoulder, wrapping the final bit of bandage around it neatly. 

“You have experience with this,” Jon notes.

Martin bites his lip. “Yes, I… I had to look after my mother a lot.” 

It makes sense, and the realisation sends another stab of guilt shooting through him. And now who does Martin have for company? 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, after a while. 

Martin’s not looking at him. “For what?” 

“Your mother.” 

He sighs, hand moving to rub at his eyes. “It… It wasn’t your fault. I know that now.” 

“Yes,” Jon says, meaningfully, “but I’m still sorry.” 

Martin’s eyebrows raise, and he smiles a little tearfully. Jon catches the same curve in Martin’s lips as before, now tinged sad. A moment passes in their understanding, and then Martin’s gaze shifts to scan Jon’s head, no doubt at his bloody eyes, hesitant. He reaches the towel up. “May I?” 

“Oh, n-no, I’ve got it,” Jon says, self-conscious, and he takes the towel from Martin’s hands slowly, so as not to alarm him. As he reaches up to his head, however, his arm twinges with a sharp pain, bandages pulling. Jon flinches, snarling as his limb fails him and the towel drops back to the ground.

“Here,” Martin says, picking it back up and laying it on the side of Jon’s face before he can protest. Jon exhales with relief as the cool cloth touches his bruised eyes, still crusted with blood, providing an instant relief. It stings, and Jon’s uncomfortable with so much of Martin being in his blindspot, but the kneading is gentle, taking care to avoid getting the water in his eyes.

“Hey—is there something I can call you?” Martin asks after a while, a little awkwardly. “Do you have, well, a name?”

“You mean, other than ‘ferocious beast’?” Jon says, deadpan.

Martin winces. “…Yes?”

Jon huffs, but more in amusement than anything. “My name’s Jon,” he says.

“Well, Jon,” Martin says, as he wipes the last of the blood away and stands, “Thank you. For saving my life.”

Jon’s heart does a bizarre and unexplained little flip in his chest at his name in Martin’s mouth. “You’re welcome,” he says, softly, and Martin’s answering nod feels like a promise.

“I think that’s everything,” Martin says, rinsing out the cloth in the bucket. “Is your room close by?”

Jon remembers, then, and suddenly all the warmth of their conversation leaves him at once, and dread creeps up to replace it. He shakes his head. “No—no. I’ve got something to do tonight.” 

Martin raises his eyebrow, perplexed. “In this state?”

“I heal quickly,” Jon says, brushing him off. “I need to get back to the Archives—“ 

“The Archives? It’s almost midnight!”

“Exactly. I promise, it’s important.” 

Martin frowns, but when Jon struggles to push himself up off the chair, he steps forward to help. There’s a brief hesitation, and then Jon’s surprised to find Martin gently taking his arm over his own shoulders, the offer to lean on him given unspoken. He accepts, though the fact that Martin is significantly smaller than him makes him worry. As they head out the room and towards the Archives though, Jon can feel his strength returning to him. By the time they reach the bottom of the stairs and he can see the scrolls before him, he’s able to walk without Martin’s support. 

“So,” Martin says, as he lights the candle on the desk, “what’s going on?”

Jon shakes his head, stepping towards the bookshelves. “I need to do this alone.”

Martin frowns. “You can’t expect me to leave you down here when you’re still hurt—”

“Yes, I can. Go to sleep, Martin,” Jon interrupts, firmly. He feels a little guilty, but it’s for the best; he’s running out of time. He heads deeper into the shelves and quickly pulls out the scrolls he needs. After a moment, Martin lets out a sigh and heads to the door. 

“Goodnight,” Jon calls, before he can stop himself.

Martin still looks skeptical, but he nods. “Goodnight, Jon.”

* * *

Two minutes to midnight, Jon stands by the front of the castle gates, a new cloak around his shoulders. The forest sings a deep cold at night, the icy paleness of the full moon seeping into the air around it. It’s still and quiet, and the darkness settles thick along the trees in anticipation. There’s a deep fog forming along the ground. Jon knows when it strikes midnight, can See the bell tolling before him, counting down. 

On the twelfth stroke, he feels the familiar dark presence, the air humming with power. Jon takes a steadying breath. “Elias.” 

The man in front of him smiles. “Jon.” 

Elias stands rimmed in moonlight under the trees, feet disappearing into the fog. His black clothes only make him seem like another shadow waiting in the darkness. Jon approaches him slowly, trying his best to hide his limp. He lifts the satchel towards him, full to the brim with scrolls. Elias doesn’t react until Jon’s in front of him. His gaze, unyielding as the moon, ceaseless as its glow, takes in Jon with no small amusement. 

“New cloak?” Elias says, the ever-constant smirk playing at his lips. 

“I have the scrolls you asked for,” Jon says, pointedly.

A sigh. “It’s always straight to business with you, isn’t it?” 

Jon doesn’t answer. Elias frowns. And then he thrusts his arm forward, too fast for Jon to dodge, and grabs a hold of his arm, thumb digging into the still healing flesh. Jon lets out a pained roar as Elias yanks his bandaged arm forward and peers curiously. 

He lets go just as Jon is wrenches his arm away. The smile is back. “My my, Jon. What happened to you?” 

Jon grinds his teeth, humiliated. “Don’t act as if you don’t know.” 

Elias tuts. “I was merely being courteous,” he says, reaching for the scrolls in Jon’s hand. The moment he makes contact, his eyes flash, and he sighs contentedly, smiling wide and condescending. 

“Would you look at that,” he says. “I’m proud of you, Jon. You made a new friend.” 

“Your castle _took_ him.”

“My castle took his mother. He’s a noble one, that Martin Blackwood.” 

Elias’ voice curls over Martin’s name like a threat. Jon grits his teeth; he can hear the warning in it. His fault, Jon thinks, suddenly. He shouldn’t have asked Martin his name, shouldn’t have let him sacrifice himself. Wishes he could’ve stopped himself from writing that scroll.

Elias, as if reading his mind, pulls the said scroll from the bag, fingering it in contemplation. In his hands, it almost seems to glow under the moonlight, glinting gold under Elias’ careful eyes. “Ah. You read this one from him directly! That’s a first. Did it feel different?”

“Just give me the names, Elias,” Jon says, tired of the games.

Elias grins, but he complies, names falling from his lips—new victims, new people to own. Jon takes a short moment to commit them to memory; there’s less than he was expecting. He gives a sharp nod when he’s done.

“Is that all?” Jon asks.

Elias hums assent. Jon lets out a relieved breath. Being around Elias felt like being surrounded by needles; everything suddenly sharper, keener, ready to draw blood at the slightest misstep. 

Just as he turns to leave, however, Elias turns to look at Jon one final time. “It felt different to me.”

Jon freezes. “What?”

Elias waves his hand in the air, faux-dismissive. “Taking Martin’s statement. It tasted sweeter.”

The words send a shiver down his spine. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, nothing you need to worry yourself with,” Elias says, still smiling. Jon wishes he could claw that smile off his face. “I hope you heal well, Jon. You’ll need the energy next month.”

And before Jon can get another word out, Elias has vanished back into the shadows, laughter echoing behind him. By now the fog has thickened, billowing out until it’s almost blocked the moon, and Jon stands alone, cursing under his breath at empty air.

* * *

Basira’s waiting in the Archives when Jon returns. The candle’s still lit, and it washes the room in a murky haze, light and shadow flickering uneasily. She takes in his bandaged wounds, looking at him expectantly. 

Instead of talking about Elias, Jon asks, “How’s Daisy?” 

Basira frowns, but answers, “Better than you are, probably. She’ll be fine; you know she heals faster than you.” She gestures towards the bandages. “Martin do those?” 

Jon nods, tired. He slumps into the seat at the table, claws finding the grain of the wood and scraping at them tightly in stress. Between his injuries and the meeting, Jon can feel exhaustion coming on hard. He rubs at his bandages; the one Elias had grabbed had begun to bleed again.

“How was it?” Basira asks. 

“How do you think.” 

“Tell me the names,” she says. Jon does so, and she walks to the table to write them down in her book. 

Basira frowns. “The list… it’s much shorter than usual.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Jon asks.

“I suppose, but I don’t like it. This is Elias we’re talking about. Something’s up.”

Jon sighs. “I know. He’s… It feels like he’s preparing for something. He said something to me I don’t like the sound of.” 

Basira furrows her eyebrows. “What?”

Jon hesitates, shaking his head. “No. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“When do we ever, Boss?” Without his full sight, Jon is too late noticing the shadow leaning on the shelf at the back of the room. “Not like we’re all trapped here because of you or anything.” 

Jon’s lips curl contemptuously. “I’m not in the mood, Tim.” 

Tim ignores him. “How was skulking with Elias out there? Sold us out yet?” 

“Tim,” Basira warns. 

“I _said_ , I’m not in the mood,” Jon snarls.

Tim rolls his eyes, stepping forward. Underneath the weak candlelight, he looks even more unstable than usual, bitterness distorting his handsome features. “Fine,” he spits. “Found my brother yet?” 

Jon shifts uneasily. “No, I… You know I’m having trouble Seeing him.” 

“You’re lying,” Tim says, fists clenching at his sides. Black shadows claw higher at his form. 

“Tim—” 

“It’s been half a year already, Jon, don’t start. You told me I wouldn’t like what you found; you know something!” 

“It’s not as easy as—“ 

“What, but you can get info for Elias easy? You can write dozens of these scrolls just fine?” 

Jon growls. “You know I have to.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure these people would be _so_ relieved to hear that,” he snaps.

Jon feels it like a slap to the face. He rises. “Get out.” 

Tim stands there, glaring for a moment, all sharp edges and pent up anger, and then he does, dissipating into an inky darkness that snatches out into the hallway. 

Jon collapses back down into the chair. “Thanks for the back-up, Basira,” he says, sarcastic.

“You know where I stand on this,” she says, coldly. “You need to tell him.”

“I know,” Jon says, not looking at her. 

There’s a beat, but Basira sighs, moving on, ever-practical. “What did Elias tell you out there?” 

“I said you didn’t need to worry about it.”

“Right,” Basira says, dryly. “So I won’t worry about it. Still want to know.”

Jon glares at her. They stare each other down for a moment, but Basira has never been one to shy away from Jon’s eyes.

Jon makes an angry noise, defeated. He looks away. “I don’t know. Something about Martin’s statement tasting sweeter.”

“You sure it wasn’t just an empty threat? Martin _is_ the first new person we’ve seen in years.”

“Like I said, I don’t know.”

“What else did he say?”

Jon grits his teeth. “That I’ll need my energy for next month.”

“How ominous,” Basira says, sighing. “He’s definitely got something planned.”

“Yes, well, it’s Elias. He’s always got something planned.”

“Anything else? Anything that explains the shorter list?”

“I don’t know!” Jon hisses, frustration bubbling over. “Nothing Elias says ever makes sense, you know this!”

Jon doesn’t realise he’s raised his voice until Basira’s stepped back, face closing off. “Right. Well,” she says, bitterly, “I suppose it’s no use then. Goodnight.”

Jon closes his eyes, putting his head in his hands. He doesn’t answer her.

“Tim’s right, you know,” she says with her back turned, just before she leaves. The door clicks shut behind her.

Jon lets out a sigh. His eyes flicker to the names written down in the book. The candle’s almost gone entirely out, wax pooling at the bottom of the holder like honey. He stares at the weakening flame, losing its battle against the night—until it burns out completely, plunging the room into a deep darkness.


End file.
